Captain James Goes on Tour
by onlyteasing
Summary: A distinctly AU comedy vision of our favourite Captain touring the UK, visiting his most adoring hormonal, middle-aged female fans. Whatever will they do with him? Will he manage to escape unscathed? I very much doubt it. **NB** Contains smutty innuendo - if you're easily offended or under 18 please do not read
1. Valentines Day in the Thames Valley

**Imagine the prospect of having our favourite fictional Captain touring the UK visiting us all one-by-one, fulfilling each of our individual needs and requirements of him. We could take him on holiday, to weddings, out to dinner, to the Park with our children, in fact anywhere so long as we get to spend quality time with him, so to speak. One of us was very lucky to have him stop by for a bit of romance on Valentines Day, and this is CJ's diary of events for that particular tour date. **NB** Any likeness to the author or real living person lurking on MN is purely coincidental, as this piece is total fiction and certainly not autobiographical, despite what my husband says.**

Good! The lights are on, she's still home. I thought I'd missed her. That bloody M4 coming up from Bath had been snarled up at Swindon making me late and she hated tardiness in a man. "I like my men to come when they're told" she always says. Hmm, I'll probably have to pay for that later, but must say I'm rather looking forward to the punishment. Four long tours in Afghan, a messy divorce and a silly dalliance with a young flibbertigibbet medic makes you yearn for a strong, ample mature woman who knows exactly how to please a man, especially in the baking department. Her buns are legendary and she certainly knows a thing or two about French fancies. I get that familiar tingle in my boxers as I approach the front door with trepidation. Damn those hard papery multi-lingual washing instruction labels they stitch in pants these days, they're always so scratchy.

I ring the bell and wait. Nothing. I stoop down and peer through the letterbox, trying to detect any movement. Suddenly, a pair of short chubby legs appear from the kitchen doorway, clad in full length dressing gown, sexily left open at the belt revealing fishnet stockings and suspenders. I gasp in delight as she looks just like Madonna, another crush of mine. But then I spot the bobbly blue hue of varicose veins and slight black stubble poking through the fishnets at shin level, and realise that it's not Madonna after all. To be fair, Madge probably wouldn't be seen dead wearing those Crocs either. In fact, come to think of it, the only similarity they share is their date of birth, but a man can dream. She suggestively allows the gown to drop to the floor as she approaches the door.

I can now see her full body and face and it's a sight to behold. That beautiful tattoo on the left bingo wing which reads "CJ Forever" in swirly writing always lifts my spirits, but I'm alarmed to see there's a new one on the right bingo wing, still dark and bruised so obviously fairly recent. It reads "Or at least until the new series of Poldark" and my mind is in a whirl. Have I spent too long away from the UK? Has she forgotten our last weekend together at the Travel Lodge in Hartlepool? I realise she had a bout of heartburn and trapped wind for most of Saturday night, but to me the memory of serenading her with lovesongs outside the bathroom door whilst she belched out a beat from the toilet was magical.

As she peers towards the front door I see she's forgotten to hold her stomach in any longer, and that sexy muffin top she always carries rolls beautifully over her washed out grey/brown Spanx pants. Ah yes, she's always telling me about that post-natal baby fat she's carrying. I haven't the heart to tell her that I know for a fact her son is 23 and living in a mud-roofed yurt with his friends Sandy and Jolyon on the outskirts of Brighton.

"It's me, Charles, let me in – I'm your Valentine surprise from Brize Nor-hun" I breathe through the letterbox, in my most manly deep voice because I know she loves it when I say Brize Nor-hun. "Is this an appropriate moment?" (I know she likes that line too). "Are you alone?" I ask, suddenly panicking because she's turned her back. I know how popular she is with the opposite sex and for an awful moment the thought crosses my mind that the awful fine-cheek-boned Rupert from Helmand or Homeland or some God forsaken place has been sniffing around again.

It's a relief when I see her merely replacing her dressing gown and putting in her "posh top set for visitors" out of the tumbler of Steradent water on the sideboard. She slips her slightly bunioned feet out of her Crocs and into some demure stilettos before sashaying along the hallway like Dick Emery to pull back the bolted door.

"Well, well, well, thish ish a shurprise Bosh Man" she splutters, obviously still trying to adjust the gum-line co-ordination. "Luckily for you I was late back from the chiropodisht with my cornsh and pershishtent verruca so I've only jusht started baking. If you'd been any later you'd be wearing your rock cakesh for ear-ringsh!" Damn and blast I knew she'd be angry.

She fetches a dining chair to stand on and crushes me to her bosom, whereupon as I'm nuzzling I find a folded up piece of paper in her ample décolletage, along with a half-eaten sausage roll and a carton of raspberry Tip Top. Jealousy pricks me once more as thoughts veer towards a love note from that damned Aidan Turncoat chappy and his sexy scarred face. I burrow down further and fish them out with my teeth and she grabs them from me. "Ooh I was wondering where that'd got to, it's my prescription for some more KY Jelly and Vagisil…oh and THAT'S what happened to my lunch." She puts the piece of paper behind her ear and munches awkwardly on the remnants of the sausage roll whilst guzzling noisily at the carton. What a woman! What a multi-tasker! She really is fucking awesome!

"Come in and lets have a game of chess, Charles" she smirks.

"What's so fucking hilarious about chess?" I counter as we stroll into the lounge, and she giggles and looks up at me coyly through her dark under eye bags, "You know how I like to expose your bishop".

I'm a little nonplussed by her forwardness and that leering look in her eyes as she focuses on my very big buckled belt. "Sorry, it's these low slung combat trousers, I can't get away with high-waisted tangas" I reply, blushing profusely.

"Oh I'm not complaining, Charles, besides they won't be on for long, this is strip chess and will end in the kind of check mate you're going to like. Come in and make yourself comfortable perching on my banquette". She bends down seductively so I can see her perfectly formed cleavage – Christ a man could get lost and never be seen again in there – and pats the seat playfully for me to sit down.

As I take my place on the well-worn red leather Chesterfield, I notice a row of trophies and medals adorning the dust-covered mahogany sideboard. In fact, when I look closely around the dimly lit salon, everywhere is dusty and the carpet could do with a good vacuum too. "What are those for? Are you some kind of a champion?" I enquire. "And when was the last time you did any housework? This room needs a good going over".

"Indeed, Charles, there are plenty of things that need a good going over, but my furniture is not one of them" she counters seductively, putting a blue-veined liver-spotted hand on my inner thigh. I feel the familiar itch in my groin as I admire those voluptuous icebergs beneath her curry-stained candlewick dressing gown. That reminds me, the next time I visit the doc I must ask for prescription-strength Cruex, the current cream's obviously not powerful enough.

"I was a champion gymnast with my partner back in the '70s. Olympic, World, European – something and nothing really compared to when I retired and became chief egg McMuffin turner at Watford Gap Services. Those are just a selection of my medals for my unique floor routine of pelvic flip double-back head-turner with full shimmy and overhead splits landing. Olga Korbut and Nellie Kim were always trying to copy my ability of thrusting to order, but never quite achieved it as they lacked the pelvic absorption I had." She sighs heavily as though she's longing for those "good old days" to come back; tiny waists, white lipstick, Agnetha Faltskog hair flicks, a smooth chin and feeling full after only one packet of Doritos…

"Unfortunately I had to retire once these beauties started bursting out of my leotard" she points a wrinkled sausage-finger at her chest "plus of course finding the male Russian Pommel Horse squad far more appreciative of my skills also made my mind up. Aah yes! We had many happy days practising the full length splits on that pommel horse, I can tell you. And all of a sudden the competition was no longer important to me and I just went along for the ride so to speak, usually with Yuri…or Artem…or Vlad…or Boris, but sometimes with Petr…or Novak…or Dmitri…it just depended on who was disqualified first, really. Happy days but pretty exhausting too…" she gazes out of the fly-dirt stained window as if she's miles away, lost in thoughts of past glories and being able to see her toes over her stomach.

I had to admire her grit. It must've been tough competing against the communist Eastern Bloc in those times and yet she seems to have managed international relations remarkably well as I notice a black-and-white dog-eared photograph nestling amongst the medals. Ten smug looking male gymnasts in tight lycra are standing underneath and peering up at her aboard the parallel bars in full-length splits mode. No wonder they're all smiling, I think to myself, can you imagine the view from where they're standing? She picks up the photo and admires the scene. "That's my partner in the background there" she stabs at the picture "…the one scowling and trying to hold her stomach in. She was always jealous of my ability to enchant the East European boys. She tried everything; cultivating a Freddy Mercury moustache, beefing up her thighs, throwing away the Immac, shaving her head; but no-one ever impressed those guys as much as me. Last I heard of her she was appearing in a PG Tips advert. She was the one saying "You hum it son and I'll play it" remember that one?" The puzzled look on my face must've reminded her that once again I was too young to have a clue what she was talking about, so she sighed deeply, replaced the photograph and wandered towards me on the banquette.

"Now, enough about my domination in the world of gymnastics, let's get to grips with my domination of you on the chess board" she grins wickedly, and proceeds to brush past me to gain access to the dusty chest of drawers and retrieve the box of carved wooden chess pieces. There's a slight waft of her scent as she returns to her seat, not floral, more cat food, but it's enough to get my pulse racing and the anticipation of how the night is going to pan out is more than I can bear.


	2. The Red Room

**A/N Thank you for all the lovely comments and reviews. We re-join Captain James on the verge of unwittingly getting himself into yet more trouble when all he wants to do is a little housework...**

"Can I get you anything before we start?" she enquires with a grin so wicked her crows feet crease up to enfold and almost hide the wart with protruding black hair on her cheek.

"Did I smell baking when I arrived?"

"Well no, actually, I was boiling my knickers in biological, it's the only way to get rid of the stubborn stains, but I can probably rustle up a cream horn if you've got five minutes. Then I can get you a sandwich or a garibaldi whilst you tidy yourself up. There's a beaker of clean water on the sideboard in the hall next to the glass of seawater mouthwash for embedding my new top set, just don't get them mixed up or I won't know if you're coming or I'm going!" She howls with laughter at her own in-joke, almost dislodging the posh top set, which visibly loosen and pull away from the gum at each guffaw. I look at her quizzically, not having a clue what she's getting at yet again.

"It's a kind of euphemism, you cockwomble!" she cackles, "let's just call it your todger tumbler, shall we? Oh never mind, I'll go and get you a bowl of Cocopops then maybe you can dip your spoon in and get what I'm driving at".

She sashays out the door, well almost – her bum actually hits the door jam as she tries her sexy hip swing, knocking a plate commemorating 40 years membership of the Carry On Film Appreciation Society off the wall and onto the lino - but I get the gist that she's trying to act demurely and can't help but admire her chutzpah once again; let's face it, Kate Moss she ain't - leaving me staring further round the assortment of mementoes and furnishings in the poorly lit lounge. There really does seem to have been a lack of housework over a number of weeks, if not months, by the looks of things. I'm quite surprised by this lack of cleanliness as she herself is usually so well turned-out. Okay so the dressing gown could do with a soak, but the spanx are obviously well-washed as they are the colour of putty, and her spots are freshly squeezed plus her nose hair is always immaculately trimmed and coiffed. I decide to push her further as to why she's been so slack in the house cleaning department when she comes back to me from the scullery.

Ten minutes later and she reappears. I'm stunned and not a little turned on to see that she's changed her outfit. Gone are the spanx and suspenders and in their place is the tiniest pair of violet coloured crimpelene hotpants, a blue velvet boob tube and co-ordinating full length Demis Roussos cast-off kaftan cape in kaleidoscope colours.

"I was just admiring your camel's foot - that really is a sight to behold!" I exclaim.

She peers over her shoulder at the artefact I was looking at. "Ooh I do enjoy mementos of foreign holidays don't you? That came from a little stall during a desert safari in Tunisia a few years back. It's quite genuine plastic you know. I had it framed and mounted. Everyone admires my camel's foot whenever they visit. Now, what do you think of the retro look, Boss Man?" She does a little twirl and promptly treads on the commemorative plate that fell on the floor earlier with her size 9 pink ostrich feather high heeled slipper, breaking it in half, so she kicks the pieces under the Chesterfield and carries on with her parade.

"Here – put these on and join me in a bit of 1970s reminiscing and vintage dressing". She throws me a pair of multi-coloured patchwork flared lune pants and a three-quarter length mustard cable knit button through cardigan with matching knitted belt, complete with a white floppy peaked cap and silver-heeled platform Chelsea boots. "You look like one of The Rubettes – I like it!" she exclaims, but I must admit to feeling a bit of a prat and not a little itchy from the pure new wool cardy. "Can you sing a chorus of Sugar Baby Love? It's my favourite." Bless her, she's so enthusiastic but I feel quite out of place if I'm honest. I catch a glimpse of myself in the rust-pocked wall mirror and I really do look like a complete dickhead. The boys from 2 Section would have a field day if they could see me now.

"I'm sorry darling, but I've never heard of The Rubettes coz I wasn't even born until 1985! The only song I know from the old days is "Don't Go Breaking My Heart", do you want me to sing that?"

"Well ok, if you must babes, but let me just put on my bifocals so I can focus when you give your mic a really good swing in front of my face".

Half an hour flies by as we duet and play parachutes in her kaftan. Somehow she manages to remove my clothes without me noticing, until all I'm wearing is the hat and boots. I know she enjoys me wearing various items of headwear. Once, I had to dress up as an MI6 agent in full James Bond tuxedo and sexy radio headset whilst she tied me to a chair and "interrogated" me. She removed all my clothes one-by-one and doused me in hot melted chocolate, before licking every scrap off with a sandpaper overlay on her tongue (damn that was rasping, but I got a full back, sac and crack in the bargain so I was happy). She's obviously enjoying my look now too, so I try to humour her as best as I can and avoid looking back in the mirror at myself because I must look like a complete bellend, despite my perfect cheekbones and gorgeous physique. I must admit, I quite like the jaunty angle of this Rubettes hat; I may take it home with me and try it with my diarrhoea coloured suede jacket when I next go on a date – I'm sure the younger ladies will love it as much as she does.

"Now, Boss Man, how about that game of chess? We need to see the back of those boots but you can leave your hat on, it's very Donny Osmond."

"Hah! I thought you said it would be strip chess, yet here I am already without my clothes. You manage to do this to me every time I visit. You really are a little minx, but I like it. Come here and kiss me!"

"Not so fast, Hot Lips! There's something I want you to do for me first. I want you to choose a story from over there in the bookcase and read it to me in your posh boy voice. That'll really get me in the mood for some romance. Ooh it's just like Jackanory only without Bernard Cribbins, I can't wait. Hah! More like Jack-off-anory the way you're draped over my banquette!" She squawks with mirth at her own in-joke once more, so I simply smile politely. These older ladies sure do have a wicked sense of humour, but most of the time it's totally above and beyond me…

I wander over to the bookcase and study the stories on offer. "How about "Who's Hiding in my Bush?" I'm not familiar with the author of that one. Or what's this one? "Who will Toss my Salad?" or "Games you can Play with Your Pussy". Erm, that sounds sweet. "The Muffin Muncher", "Here Comes the Sausage", they're all here. Umm, it's so difficult to choose. I know, let's go with "Here Comes the Poo Bus" as I'm a little intrigued by the plot of this one. Ok, are you sitting comfortably? Then let me begin…"

It's not very often you get to read an interesting book out loud to a voluptuous lady in a multi-coloured chiffon kaftan whilst only wearing a pair of Chelsea boots and a silly hat, but I must say my natural shyness is dissipating by the minute with this beautiful woman, and I even find myself relaxing with legs akimbo on the Chesterfield as I read. She too seems rapt in the story as she can't keep her eyes off the book I'm holding between my thighs, although with those bottle-end Olive From On The Buses glasses it's difficult to see where she's actually looking. I don't quite understand how looking at a book cover would make you lick your lips and pout like Mick Jagger though, but I carry on reading to the end of the story, finishing with a very sexy "The End" as I snap the book covers together. The sound seems to bring her out of her trance-like reverie and she instantly puts her knees back together and wipes the drool from the corner of her mouth.

"Well, that was beautifully read, Boss Man and I enjoyed the twist at the end there, how unexpected was that? Who knew the back entrance could be so useful when the bus is otherwise full?"

"Indeed. Now, is there anything else you'd like me to do before I take these boots off? They're starting to pinch a bit."

"Well, if you wouldn't mind standing on that step ladder and reaching up to feather dust those cobwebs in the corner of the ceiling, I'll stand on the bottom rung and hold you steady. Here's the duster."

She passes me the feather duster and I move the ladder to the corner of the room and climb up.

"It's ok, I don't need you to cling onto me like that; I've only gone up two steps. Hah! I've just had a thought – with your face there you could say we're "cheek to cheek"" I titter to myself, but she's remarkably quiet and doesn't even respond to my very funny wisecrack, choosing instead to nestle between my buttocks and sigh contentedly.

"There you go, all done now. You can release me, I'm finished and want to get down. Erm, you really do have an iron grip don't you?" I manage to finally prise her hands from around my waist and her face from out of my bum-crack.

I decide to broach the subject of housework and strike while the iron's hot. "Er, I must say I was surprised at how little housework has been done since my last visit. Whatever do you do all day? Anybody would think you spend your time reading Fifty Shades of Grey and Pride and Prejudice fanfiction. Or maybe you spend hours contributing to a silly thread about a TV programme aired 8 months ago. Hah! Only joking! What silly notions. There's no way the BBC will contemplate giving THAT show another series, despite it being popular with millions and achieving enough votes to nearly top Sherlock in the polls. Those clever bods at the Beeb know what they're doing. I've heard they've commissioned an historic drama detailing the Battle of Waterloo as it's the anniversary, with Alan Titchmarsh as the Duke of Wellington and Julian Clary as Napoleon. Only cost £10m to make as it's being filmed in Cleethorpes, so an absolute bargain. They're scheduling it against I'm a Celebrity so it's sure to get at least 300 people watching. Probably a BAFTA in there somewhere for someone." I add triumphantly, hoping to impress her with my knowledge of all things television drama.

She looks shocked at my question and angrily puts her hands to her hips ready to scold me like a silly schoolboy. Oops! Time to backtrack before she goes into menopausal meltdown. "Don't get me wrong, I'm sure you must be very busy being Secretary General of the United Nations, but I'm afraid this place needs a good vacuum. Where do you keep your Henry? Can you get it out and I'll give it a good blow round for you if you like".

"You will? Well that's very kind." Her hard, thin lips soften slightly as her stance falls back into its usual curved spine stoop. Phew! That was close – the old oestrogen levels were building up alarmingly there for a minute and I thought I was in for some trouble.

"I keep all my apparatus in the cupboard under the stairs. It's recently been knocked through and redecorated in there – I now call it my Red Room. Perhaps you'd like to take a look and find my Henry while you're at it. Shouldn't take more than a couple of hours."

Before I have time to question why it would take longer than twenty minutes to vacuum the whole downstairs, she leads me by the hand out of the lounge back to the hallway. Darn these pinching boots – I'm starting to mince like Alan Carr on speed rather than forcefully striding like the butch Afghan Vet that I am. What is she doing to me?

We arrive at the cupboard and she produces a bunch of keys from her kaftan pocket to unlock the door.

"On your knees and wait for my command before your enter" she barks, and tries to tie my hair back in a pony tail before she undoes the padlock. It proves a bit difficult on a short back and sides, but she just about manages to tie two cute neck nape curls tightly in the band, cursing under her breath at the fiddling required from her nailbitten stubby fingers to manoeuvre the band.

Oh dear, what will I be expected to do now? And will we finish in time so I can catch the next episode of Neighbours? I'll just have to wait out and see…


	3. It's Fun to Stay for a Full On Cream Tea

**Thank you for reading and (hopefully) enjoying this stuff and nonsense. I love receiving your messages and reviews, good or bad, so keep 'em coming! Big thanks to the Mumsnet girls who keep on inspiring and encouraging this outrageous blarney to continue.**

 **It will soon be time for our beloved Captain to move on with his Tour, but unfortunately this particular stop-over is proving a little harder to escape from. In fact I'm certain it's going to be an all-nighter, mainly because I'm the author so therefore have the right to keep him here a bit longer. Whoops! I mean keep him THERE a bit longer. Note to self: remember this is not real life – it is in fact pure fiction and fantasy…**

 **We rejoin our hero** **enjoying the afterglow of a night in the Red Room…**

Well, it looks like Neighbours is a no-no after all. In fact, I'll be bloody lucky to get to see Good Morning Britain at this rate…

"No, I really can't manage another cream horn, thanks all the same." I'm shattered after four whole hours of a full cream tea with only one comfort break, and even then she followed me to the bathroom on the premise of holding my éclair for me. I don't know where she gets her energy from, but as soon as she's given me yet another exquisite pair of iced fingers, she seems ready to serve up yet more of her delicious strawberry muffin. My resistance to have another mouthful is tested to the limit, but I really have no energy left and I'm more than ready for my bed.

"Come, come Boss Man, we're not flagging _**again**_ are we? You know what happened earlier – shall I ring the bell a second time?"

Oh no! The dreaded bell. Please not again. My mind wanders back to earlier this evening – or was it yesterday? - when I was first pushed through the cupboard under the stairs she calls her Red Room…

At first all was dark, then as my eyes acclimatised to the low tea-light dimness, I noticed all manner of housework tools and equipment. She was standing in one corner clutching her Henry in a very seductive manner, and behind her were various sized feather dusters all lined up and hanging from hooks on the wall, neatly folded J cloths and rows of bleaches, cleaning fluids and polish were all sitting on shelves to one side. Over in the far corner there was a snooker table and several swivel chairs, one of which was very large in black leather, complete with foot stool and built-in cup holder. I remember thinking how handy that was if you needed somewhere to put your Rosabaya… Then, in the other corner, I detected movement. And suddenly they all came into dim focus…

"Now, let me introduce you. Boss Man, I think you already know Aidan Turncoat and Rupert from Helmand. Then this is Scott, Stonebridge, but alas no Max, Matthias and Sheriff Hood." After friendly handshakes all round, I see all six men are wearing various types of uniform, but I notice no-one in low slung desert combats. Just as I'm about to mention this, as if to read my mind, she taps me on the shoulder with her bejewelled nicotine-stained forefinger and hands me back my army fatigues.

"There you go, now give me back the Rubettes hat there's a love and put on this radio headset". I'd grown quite attached to that hat but she promises to let me wear it later so I reluctantly hand it over. Off come the Chelsea boots, thankfully, but the raw blisters that have been exposed will need first aid attention very soon. She enthusiastically promises to don her nurses outfit later and "give me a good seeing to", so I'm grateful she seems to be medically trained.

Once I'm kitted out she makes me stand next to Aidan Turncoat, who's dressed like an 18th century dragoon soldier with a full-headed curly perm that I'd kill to have. Rupert is a lollipop man in a full length white overall complete with hi viz jacket overlay and clutching his extra-large lollipop. Scott is a fireman grasping a very stiff broad purple hose and Stonebridge is a cowboy complete with stetson, tight leather chaps and pointed spurs. For some reason Matthias is dressed as a Victorian farmer in a fetching white lacy smock and neckerchief and clutching a lamb, and Lucas Hood looks very sexy indeed as an American traffic cop in tight black jodhpurs and biker boots.

"Ok boys, we're now complete. I do so enjoy a man in uniform. Let's hit it!" She picks up a remote handset and presses the play button. All of a sudden the Red Room is lit up like a 1970s disco with strobe lighting and glitterballs, and the music bursts into life around us. The guys start swivelling their hips in time to the music and waggling their fingers in her direction.

" _Young man, there's no need to feel down, I said young man, get yourself off the ground…"_

"C'mon Charles, put some bloody effort in! Get those hips shimmying like Rupert! Just look at how he thrusts that lollipop! " she commands from her seat on the big black leather swivel chair.

" _It's fun to stay at the Y.M.C.A, it's fun to stay at the Y.M.C.A"_

I fumble to try and mimic the hand movements like Scott and Stonebridge, who seem very adept at all the poses, but fail miserably to keep up.

"Just copy Matthias, babe, he's always very good with his hands!" she yells over the music, but I'm really struggling to stay in beat as these blisters are giving me no end of bloody jip.

"No, no, no that's not it! Hold it, hold it that's no good at all!" She abruptly switches off the music and the six men turn to scowl at me, looking none too pleased with my efforts.

"Ok boys take five. Go and sit over there by the snooker table. I'll be over to personally apologise and maybe pot a couple of balls with each of you in a moment. Now Charles, this is not what I expected from the British Army. I suppose we should be grateful I didn't make you do this dance in your stilettos" she dangles a pair of silver diamante size 10 Louboutins in my face "but I felt sorry for you as those Chelsea boots gave you such nasty blisters. Well, I have no option but to ring the bell". She takes an over-dramatic heavy sigh and walks over to a low glass coffee table to pick up a little brass bell. It jingles politely and within seconds the door to the Red Room flies open and slams against the doorjamb.

"Ah Crixus, can you please come here and show the Boss Man what a real man should be able to do?" My eyes are transfixed by a man-mountain in full Roman gladiator gear, with fully greased-up rippling biceps and bulging tonsured torso. I feel somewhat scrawny and bony-shouldered as I'm overwhelmed by his magnificent manly presence, and a pang of jealousy touches my conscience (not to mention an embarrassing slight flush of bromantic admiration at the sight of his perfectly hewn thighs) especially as she appears totally transfixed and enchanted by his barely-there loincloth and high strapped sandals.

"Certainly my lady" he growls tetchily "if you wouldst be so kind as to replayeth the music" and he unfurls his very long whip.

Let's just say I learned the steps very quickly after that, and even attempted one chorus whilst wearing the stilettos after Crixus was particularly insistent with that whip (something I secretly rather enjoyed), but she decided they were too over-the-top when teamed with low slung combats and I had to put my regulation six lace-holes back on for the finale.

We finally mastered the whole song by the early hours just as dawn was breaking over the abattoir next door, and she seemed very impressed. At least there were plenty of oohs and aahs and yes, yes, yeses being uttered between the verses, so I'm guessing she was pleased. She and Crixus had disappeared to the darkened corner on the other side of the room by the time we'd perfected the harmonies and seemed to be enjoying a very heavy game of snooker. At least that's what I think they were doing; I heard her say something about Crixus' big red balls anyway.

I really bonded with some of the guys by the end of the session; Rupert let me hold his lollipop and I admired Stonebridge's snug-fitting chaps, to which he replied he liked my manly forearms and very big watch, but Scott said he needed to get to know me better before I could test out his helmet. I sense that Sheriff Hood and Scott aren't in fact Septic Tanks when they accidentally forget their accent and call me a 'bloody poshboy limey pom stealing our favourite bloody Sheila' but fortunately Aidan stepped in with a compliment about the New Zealand scenery whilst filming The Hobbit and a hearty supply of Cornish pasties to calm the situation before it got too ugly. As he rightly pointed out, we're all in the Red Room together, so she must like us all equally. I can't help thinking that we are actually just the cabaret sideshow as she and Crixus are still pumping those balls in the far corner of the room and they haven't even noticed yet that our song is over. I've a feeling he's antipodean too – I reckon she's got a thing for blokes from down under, as well as Belgian farmers apparently, and quietly curse their handsome finely honed cheekbones and manly good looking butchness.

That was a few hours ago. When she did finally emerge with Crixus he was still feeding her his grapes so we had to politely look away for a couple of minutes whilst she squeezed out the last of his pips. That was when she suggested we all head back out to the lounge and have a full cream tea together whilst she fetched Crixus his ball bucket. I felt a slight prick of something and put it down to jealousy, thinking mine was just a todger tumbler…but then realised it was actually Rupert behind me being extra friendly and I must say I quite enjoyed it.

And here I am. Back in her lounge where I started. Exhausted, spent and never ever wanting to wear 1970s clothes or sing 1970s songs ever again. If I never taste squirty cream again it'll be too soon that's for sure. That last chocolate brownie from Rupert has absolutely finished me off.

Suddenly the doorbell rings and she goes to answer it. Muffled voices ensue and I overhear her saying something like "but do I have to let him go? He's literally been up all night and needs to sleep…oh well ok then, I'll just fetch him…"

She appears in the doorway, dishevelled and sleep-deprived from the all-night partying, yet still wondrously attractive despite the 5 o'clock shadow and cowboy walk.

"Charles, it's time for you to move on, your chauffeuse is here with the E-Type. I think you're off to Scotland via somewhere in the north. You might need that Rubettes flat cap after all, but I haven't got a whippet you can borrow or any cans of Newcastle Brown Ale for the journey I'm afraid. You'd better start practising your "Eeh by gum, Ey up me duck, Haud yer wheesht, whey aye man, am gan to the toon, I'm propa paggered, Yer bum's oot the windae and I'll see thi mardy arse" or they'll never understand what you're saying with that southern poshboy accent. I believe they're measuring you up for a kilt ready for a wedding so I don't want to hear or see on Facebook that you've been sharing your dirk amongst the bridesmaids, capiche? Laters, baby!"

I'm shoved out onto the doorstep towards the bearded lady in a Scout Leader uniform with black leather pedal pushers and over-the-knee jack boots leaning nonchalantly against the car. Her muscular arms are folded and I notice H-A-R-D C-O-R-E tattooed across her fingers. Oo-er, I think I may have got away lightly so far on this Tour.

And with that the front door closes firmly behind me and I'm practically manhandled rather roughly into the E-Type. As we slowly pull away to leave the Thames Valley behind I can hear a faint rendition of YMCA and a whip cracking sound. I notice through the net curtains some very strange movements and outlines of bodies that look like a full on rodeo is taking place.

She's forgotten me already.

 **Onwards and upwards for our beloved Captain, as his Tour takes him beyond the Game of Thrones-like Great Ice Wall that is Birmingham, to undiscovered savage lands known as The North where the Wildlings dwell…**


	4. Halves on a Travel Lodge

**Soooo we're to get a Series 2 at last! Not sure I like the idea of no Molly Dawes being featured, but hopefully our favourite Captain will return in some shape or form (preferably a mighty fine low slung combat trousered and very big belted one) along with the lovely lads of 2 Section.**

 **In the meantime, our hero will continue with his Tour of the UK until filming of OG2 resumes in Jan 2016. That should give him plenty of time to get to all the salivating lustful ladies around the country who wish to – ahem - meet him and have a good – erm - chat. We rejoin our hero in the back of the E-Type making his way "oop North" to a Scottish wedding. Perhaps not unexpectedly, the journey is experiencing a few hitches…**

We're an hour into the journey and already there's a snarl up on the M40. Jesus there were better road systems in Afghan! I peer once more at the driver, Birgit Klaussmann, and catch her glass eye swivelling to observe me in the rear view mirror whilst stroking her beard seductively. She makes low grunting Germanic conversation which I don't fully understand so I simply laugh politely and nod my head enthusiastically, hoping that was the answer she was looking for. "You vill? Vell, I can't vait to stop ze car and get on wiz it" she turns to stare at me with the good eye and raises her monobrow enquiringly whilst grinning wickedly and licking her lips with her grey-furred tongue, exposing her diamond-studded gold front tooth and several mouth ulcers, and I realise I probably should have said a firm no to whatever the question was. Time to backtrack.

"Well, erm, it depends really on the type of brassica we're talking about…Good God! What's that?" Glad of the diversion, I turn to see a psychedelic coloured VW Camper catering van covered in painted daisies pulling up alongside us in the fast lane queue, and a rather voluptuous woman is hanging almost whole-bodied out of the serving-hatch window, waving frantically and pointing a chunky red-painted talon straight at me. She looks vaguely familiar but I can't quite place her at the moment. Suspending herself from the passenger window is another beauty, dressed all in white with a name tag reading "Surgery Receptionist – Always Unable to Help So Don't Bother Asking". I think she's clutching a stethoscope in one free hand, it's certainly rubber tube-like with metal butts on the end, and gesturing with the other that she'd like to listen to my heartbeat, or at least give me some kind of anatomical check-up anyway.

As the traffic finally starts to speed up and pull away, the short, voluptuous one's bouncing icebergs are so big it's fortunate the reinforced metal basque she's wearing keeps them from skimming the tarmac, but the ensuing sparks showering off the road are blinding, not to mention mesmerising. It's not very often you see someone with stretch marks on their neck, but to be fair I suppose the gravitating weight of that chest would cause no end of downward pulling. Thank goodness the spare tyres round her waist are acting as ballast wedged within the open hatch, otherwise she'd be ricocheting off the central reservation, such is her excitement and over-eager kiss-blowing gesticulating.

As the van overtakes us, I notice a sign on the side saying "Prudeys Plump Pork Pies and Pertly Primped Pasties" in large swirled script. More stickers adorn the van bodywork; "Let me Tempt You to an Old Tart", "No Dogs Allowed – Particularly Truffling St Bernards" , "My Meat is Already Well Boned", "Try a Smashing Pasty from Prudey", "Guaranteed Audible Cracks Whilst You Enjoy My Edible Snacks" and "Buy One and I'll Give you One for Free". It's obviously some kind of savoury catering business with those catchy taglines. I'm quite relieved it's not patisseries as I'm totally finished with all things creamy after the last Tour stop. Rupert's elongated thick chocolate brownie was definitely a turning point for me yesterday.

"Oh it's okay, Birgit, I think they're just rowdy football supporters. Phew! What a relief. For a minute there I thought their over-eager excitement was directed at me. Look – there's scarves hanging out the windows and the banner in the back window says "Norwich Barmy Army". They must be on their way to the Canaries away game at United".

"Nein, Capitan, you are reading zis banner wrongly, and zey are not scarves. Zey are ze tapes for measuring, you know, ze very soft ones for taking ze inside leg measurements of ze combatz trouser."

I look more closely as the van pulls in front of us and which we are now inexplicably pursuing at quite some speed. Birgit is right; they are not football scarves billowing in the wind, they are tape measures and they're fluttering out of every window. I also notice the sign actually says " **N.O.R.W.I.C.H** …we are **BARMY** about **ARMY** Captains" and that familiar feeling of trepidation and dread fills me for the first time since I knocked on that door back in the Thames Valley two days ago. Gulp…that's an acronym…I'm in full combat desert fatigues…Eek! There's more of them and they're tracking my every move. And what's more, Birgit is making no attempt to let them move ahead of us – I think they're together!

All of a sudden my memory floods back to me. Although she's not aged well and is far more haggard and grey than her youthful appearance previously, the one with the big icebergs is the gymnastics partner scowling in the 1970s photo back at the house in Old Windsor. Of course! Oh dear, the years haven't been kind to her and it appears those spare tyres haven't shifted at all in 40 years. In fact, there looks to be three more as well as the two I recall in the photo, but mercifully she's had some straightening work done on her Freddy Mercury teeth and double-dose electrolysis on the old moustache and sideburns. There's still something 'of the night' about her – I think it might be the Dracula haircut and she obviously avoids mirrors when she gets dressed by the cut of that basque exposing her vest straps - but I'm finding her extremely attractive and secretly willing Birgit to not lose them.

The traffic is slowing down again and we manage to overtake the camper. They're both still hanging there, leering, making very rude gestures with the stethoscope, licking their lips and accidentally dribbling when they see the E-Type go past, but I find myself enthusiastically waving back at them. Birgit pulls in front and that's when I notice who's driving the van. Rupert! He came back to me! He gives a blank, manly, fine-cheek-boned scowling in-character nod of acknowledgement as I proffer a meek thumbs-up and then a knowing smile breaks out between the two of us. I do hope he's brought his extra large lollipop; it was great fun prodding that about yesterday.

"Erm, Birgit, are they following us all the way up to Scotland? It's just that, well, it's a helluva long way to drive and we may need some kind of a break if you're feeling tired? I wouldn't want you or dear Rupert to nod off at the wheel or anything…" I try not to sound too eager to pull over, but Birgit is no fool after countless years controlling unruly beavers and taps masterfully at the TomTom with the H.A.R.D. tattooed hand.

"Zer is a Travel Lodge in Dudley that vee can stopov at in anozer 20 minutes or so, but we vill have to go halves on the cost Capitan".

"Well I suppose Dudley's a little like Lake Garda. Er, do you think those ladies and, erm, Rupert will think we are desperate to lure them back there? It's just that they seem very happy to see me and might enjoy a little stopover…all of us…together."

"Nein Capitan, they are only fit for one purpose and zat is to measure you up for ze wedding kilt. There will be no going ze halves on a Travel Lodge vith those people, and I vill make sure of zat". She flexes the C.O.R.E tattooed fingers and cracks her knuckles on the steering wheel menacingly.

I try to mask the disappointment in my voice, as I was quite looking forward to getting re-acquainted with Rupert's lollipop, "Ah I see. Well, perhaps we'll meet up with them again tomorrow?"

"Jawhol, Bossman, remember vee are only part way zru our journey, vee do not vant to be stuck going back and vorth to ze Travel Lodges for too long, vee vant to get to Scotland and be brilliant at ze wedding. Those two ladiez and ze handsome driver chappy vill be back to measure you up tomorrow".

Birgit suddenly hears an announcement on the radio and fiddles noisily with the tuner knob to listen intently to the report.

" _And in other news today it's been announced that a new series of Our Girl has been commissioned by the BBC. Series two will feature Tango Sugartits, the much-loved busty barmaid whippet racer and part-time pigeon fancier famously killed off in a tanning salon electrical fault on the popular northern soap Corporation Terrace last year. When asked to comment, Miss Sugartits refused to elaborate, but said she could be persuaded to give a full interview to Hiya Suckers magazine for the right price, and may even throw in a few peek-a-boo shots and wedding photos for free._

 _A BBC spokesman proudly confirmed Tango's agreement, saying she was just what the show was looking for to appeal to their core audience of adolescent boys with the hots for young top totty. Out will go the gritty, realistic role made famous by WestWinders star Frilly Burner, and in will come a more glamorous medic, always immaculate in full make-up, false eyelashes, hair extensions and pearly whites. There will even be time for a suntan as Tango will appear in all episodes dressed in her white nearly-there-self-designed-for-Littlewoods-Catalogue bikini. To make it more realistic, however, the bikini will have two red medical crosses stitched over the nipples and on the bum-crack area, and she will always keep a firm hand on her Bergen in case of emergency or the need for a top up of suntan lotion._

 _No news yet, however, on other cast members. Our sources have been unable to contact Captain James for confirmation of his signing since his return from filming in Canada and the US some months ago. His agency has stated he has been incommunicado but speculation is rife that he is in fact touring the country and making ladies of a certain age very happy indeed. No news either on the rest of 2 Section."_

" _And now the weather forecast…"_

Birgit hurriedly switches the radio off and sweeps the car into a layby. She turns to face me, the carbuncle on her neck glowing in the moonlit ambience of the E-Type.

"Never mind about such TV army drama nonsense, Capitan, vee have now arrived at ze Dudley Travel Lodge. Unfortunately, there is only a double room available but if vee both promise to keep ze one foot on ze floor everyzing will be, how you say, cushty. Now, about zat promise you made at the start of our journey – I can't vait for zat sauerkraut of yours to be viped all over my very soiled napkin". She rubs her leather-clad thighs lustfully and winks her glass eye in my direction.

As we pull into the car park, I see the Camper van is already parked across two spaces…and there's a waft of simmering meat…

This could be another very long night.

 **Hope you enjoyed this chapter. Don't quite know yet how CJ is going to extricate himself from three lusty ladies AND an amorous Rupert. He may well simply lay back, do his duty and think of England. With heartfelt thanks for all the laughter to my MN partners in crime, this chapter is dedicated to BK (who I don't think is really German), Orphan and RichTea. I'm sure they recognised themselves…**


	5. A Little Bit of Kilt Measuring

**Thank you to everyone for coming back to me and tolerating another silly send-up excerpt of our favourite Captain's exploits on his UK Tour. I'm still sulking that there's no confirmation of our hero being in Series 2, but on the plus side it means we get to do what we want with him for the rest of our lives. A bit previous I know, but I wish the BBC would pull their finger out and pay the luscious Ben a matching £250k, as the low slung combats alone are more than worth it!**

 **While we're waiting for the announcement, we catch up with Charles at the Dudley Travel Lodge on a one-night-only stopover of kilt measuring before resuming the long journey beyond Hadrians Wall for the traditionally attired Scottish wedding.**

Of course I should've realised the "keeping one foot on the floor" promise from Birgit was her little Germanic way of being fucking economical with the truth. As we settle down for the night I strip down to my boxers and slide under the covers, obediently placing my right foot on the shagpile to keep things purely platonic as requested. Imagine my surprise when I see Birgit unscrewing her left leg at the knee and standing it nonchalantly by the bedside table, before diving under the covers to nuzzle my neck and sexily spoon and snuggle me! Of course, I couldn't stay mad at the little minx for long when we start playing that little known German past-time, Nibble the Knackwurst, using supplies from Prudey's van outside and a lot of improvisation. I have to tell you, it beats kissing the back of her hairy hand to save soiling my napkin any day of the week. Granted, it took a while to overlook her beard and drawing pin vajazzle, but what that woman can do with her glass eye defies gravity, and yet she **still** manages to walk upright and in a straight line to answer the door when a loud impatient knocking occurs.

She nimbly refits her leg as I wipe my mouth with a hand towel and goose-steps over to lift the latch, just as a raucous argument ensues outside. I can't quite make out what's being said but it's pretty obvious Birgit is not happy about it, as the black downy matt of hair across her shoulders stands up like an angry Rottweiler.

"I'm zorry to disturb your, ahem, zleep, Bossman, but the ladiez are insisting that zey wish to measure you up for ze kilt right now. I'm not happy as I told them you vere sleeping very soundly indeed vhilst I wos quietly reading ze Fifty Shades of ze Gray fanfiction in ze corner over zhere and drinking my Alka Seltzer schnapps whilst minding my own business, but zey are very insistent."

"Oh it's okay, Birgit, I'm not that plum tuckered out after all the undercover sausage squeezing, so let them in".

Birgit looks at the floor disappointedly and whispers under her eggy breath "But I vos looking forward to more time alone wiz you and sampling ze plums next, Capitan. It's such a disappointment, you know, zat zey are intruding on us and spoiling our time togezer". Birgit looks crestfallen and retreats to the corner chair to pick the scab from her carbuncle and sulkily flick open her ipad to the fanfic website.

But I'm too bedazzled by the sight in front of me to notice Birgit's scowl. There they are again, in person, standing upright in all their five foot nothing and six foot three glory instead of hanging suspended from van windows with icebergs bouncing off the tarmac, and looking absolutely drop dead gorgeous too.

Prudey is looking particularly demure in high heeled brown Doc Martens and a lacey layered ra-ra puffball mini skirt left over from Pepsi and Shirlie's stage costume heyday. Rather than elongating her shape, the skirt makes her legs look like a couple of tree stumps on stilts, with her baggy-skinned knees the same wrinkled and dry texture as bark too. She gives me an impish grin and that's when I notice the cold sores at both corners of her mouth and the rather sexy gap where one of her front teeth should be. Actually she's not dissimilar looks-wise to Nanny McPhee but that overbite sure is damned attractive, and I find myself biting my lip in solidarity whilst admiring her. She takes this as some kind of signal to amble straight up to the bed and push me forcefully backwards onto the duvet with her rather robust spare tyre so I'm lying legs akimbo with only my boxers to just about cover my ever-growing modesty.

Tagging along three steps behind Prudey is the tall, willowy Doctor's Receptionist, still dressed head-to-toe in white with an ethereal aura of the Ghost of Christmas Past about her, awkwardly carrying what at first I thought was an old dead poodle over her arm and a selection of surgery medical leaflets. On closer inspection I realise the poodle is actually a length of fully plaited frizzy hair that is emanating from Prudey herself, and cascading Rapunzel-like across the shagpile. Colour-wise I suppose you'd call it 'salt and pepper' if you were describing George Clooney's famous locks, but as I'm describing a stumpy middle aged woman's mane I think wizened poo brown and grey is more appropriate. I follow the long snake-like length of hair from the Receptionist's clutches and am shocked to note that it doesn't start from Prudey's head at all, but from the underneath of her ra-ra skirt. Oh my! No wonder it's so curly and the skirt's so flouncy – imagine the shampoo bill keeping that lot tangle-free…

The Receptionist silently lays the 'plait' by Prudey's side at the bottom of the bed and proceeds to creep with her bare-footed Hobbit-like feet around the room distributing the leaflets in neat piles on any free surfaces, as if on automatic pilot. "Take no notice of her, Boss Man" says Prudey, slowly inching her way up the bed towards my ankles as she's being tugged back by the sheer weight of the incumbent plait. "She's spent too long at The Surgery I'm afraid – brings her work home with her all the time. Even off duty she'll ignore your protests and insist you make an appointment at the STD clinic or personally try and take a urine sample from you. She's harmless really as long as you remember to steer clear when she's holding a syringe. She doesn't speak much unless it's to ridicule your illness in front of colleagues, or refuse you an emergency appointment on the grounds of the doctor being too busy on the golf course. You might get a sentence out of her if she makes you describe your symptoms in front of the whole waiting room, but it's just her way of being helpful". I risk another glance at The Receptionist's glacial expression; impassive, cold, unyielding, and yet her eyes are sparkling and eagerly checking out my finely honed shoulder muscles, not to mention my rippling six-pack and beyond, and she too is licking her lips in collaborative anticipation. Again I find myself totally captivated by her cool exterior shielding that burning desire in her bloodshot eyes.

I jump and catch my breath as she dips her hand into her tunic pocket foraging for something, in case she's going to make me produce a sample of some kind or bring out a pair of extra-large forceps, but instead she reveals two rolled-up soft tape measures. She throws one to Prudey and launches her own tape like a cracking whip to make it unravel.

"Come, come Captain, you know why we're here. No need to be shy. We want your kilt to fit like a glove at that Scottish wedding so it's important we get accurate inside leg measurements or we'll have a slipshod sporran. We can't have a droopy dirk now, can we? Just lay back and relax and open your legs a little more please. Now I think The Receptionist and I will need to take our own clothes off so we are not impeded in any way and can gather our information hygienically and without hindrance. Damn and blast this skirt! If you wouldn't mind just holding onto my plait so I can pull the skirt through and over it…there! That's better". She reveals scanty lace underwear and stockings with suspenders actually clipped to the forest of pubic hair that is the plait's origin. It's times like these I wish I'd packed a machete in my Bergen, as I expect to see a startled muntjac leap out of the undergrowth at any moment and don't feel equipped to handle it in just my boxers.

Two hours later and they've finally finished all their measuring. Quite why I had to pose like a shop mannequin for such long periods I don't know, but Prudey was insistent she needed photos from all angles for research purposes. I wasn't happy about the pose with her plait like a scarf round my neck either, nor the fact that Prudey had to straddle me for the plait to "look more scarf-like" but I suppose she knows what she's doing. I also found I couldn't say no to The Receptionist when she insisted on checking me over for genital crabs after I told her of my previous escapade in the Thames Valley two days ago. I don't know why she was so adamant, but she said she'd also done the same to Rupert so if it's good enough for him it's good enough for me. Thankfully, after rummaging with a nit comb for a good half an hour and then providing a full bed bath for me and a pint glass of Birgit's Alka Seltzer schnapps for her, The Receptionist confirms she's well and truly spent and satisfied. I even spied a slight flush to her otherwise translucent porcelain cheeks and a lopsided smirk on her cherubic lips, so I think she secretly enjoyed the examination.

As if on cue, Rupert arrives just as we're finishing off. He pulls up a swivel chair and we celebrate with a fresh meat sandwich together and other edible snacks straight from the van's Aga.

The ladies complain the camper van is too uncomfortable to sleep in, so despite Birgit's protests, I agree they can all bunk up with us and top and tail, just like in my boarding school days. And I must say I'm finding the feel of Rupert's tail extremely agreeable…unless it's Prudey's plait pretending to be a python again…oh what the heck, I'm really enjoying this latest Tour stopover.

 **A/N Thank you for your kind words and encouragement, especially the MumsNet gang. Apologies if any description of characters in relation to this chapter appear too real for comfort. It was all intentional.**

 **Reviews are always as welcome as my psychiatric aftercare appointments, so keep 'em coming.**

 **The journey continues to the north-west next time, when CJ changes his mode of transport to a Manchester tram…**


	6. The Manchester Stopover

**Well here we are again progressing through the Tour, getting ever closer to Scotland. We pick up the adventure as our hero tries a different mode of transport somewhere in the north-west of our beautiful country. If you're thinking Manchester, then you'd be as near to the mark as CJ is to manly perfection…**

Damn and blast these desert fatigues are hot and itchy in this beautiful summer sunshine. My sweat levels are as high as in Afghan and I wish I had that paddling pool to take a quick dip in, preferably alongside Rupert and his rapid-fire water pistol, but there's no time as it's onwards and upwards with my next Tour stopover.

I don't think Birgit was too pleased that I left her and the E-Type behind in Dudley that following morning. She did say she'd keep her beady eye on me, but I've seen what she does with that glass orb so is it any wonder I was keen to escape another session of "internal viewings" without full access to a squirt of antibac gel? I really will adore her for always though, so I'm hoping that once I get to Manchester she'll come back to me and we can perhaps indulge and immerse ourselves in another glass of that very special Alka Seltzer schnapps she concocts.

As the Scottish Wedding isn't until August, I've spent an idyllic few months going AWOL and ambling through the Midlands countryside taking in the sights and enjoying the long nights aboard Prudey's Pasty Van with the whole gang. Of course, after that unforgettable night at the Dudley Travel Lodge how could I resist the temptation of their free spirited openness and spontaneity when they asked me to "drop out for a bit" and see the country. Like I said to Prudey at the time "I suppose it's chemistry" to which she replied "Nah, Boss, believe me, it's most definitely the biology".

As there was now four of us, the ladies took great delight in re-christening the van the Mystery Machine and calling me Fred for some reason. Can't say I enjoyed dyeing my hair blond and donning an orange neckerchief and blue flared slacks very much, as it brought back the night sweats from that first visit to the Thames Valley back in February dressing up as a 1970s Rubette. But it was quite fun calling The Receptionist Daphne, despite her drawing the line at wearing a purple mini dress and insisting on keeping her medical tunic, surgical gloves, face mask and plastic bag shoe covers on. I must say Rupert more than lived up to his moniker of Shaggy though, and I really am seeing him in a different light these days. Don't think Prudey was too pleased to be Velma, but her hairstyle just seemed appropriate somehow and she was grateful to be wearing the frumpy baggy brown polo neck jumper, as it hid the stretch marks and extra flabby muffin top so well. I still don't know why we've got new names, but it seems to give Prudey and The Receptionist happy teenage memories of the past, so I'm game to keep on the neckerchief if Rupert is game to persist with the Shaggy, so to speak. Plus of course I do enjoy harmonising along to the Beach Boys and the Mamas and the Papas on the van cassette player. Velma makes a damned realistic Mama Cass. I'm fnding you can't beat a bit of tie-dye and a headband in the summer months either.

But all good things must come to an end and it's with a heavy heart that as we hit the M62 I realise we're nearing my drop-off point. I gather up my Bergen as Daphne mops me down with a sterilised towelette and takes my temperature, internally, like a cocker spaniel, one last time "just to make sure you haven't got a fever" she reassures me. Velma crushes me to her ample bosom until it's hard to breathe and I'm gasping for air, which she takes as a signal to plunge her gold-studded canker-sore-covered fork tongue down my throat like a cane toad striking out for a passing bluebottle. I must say her garlic/spring onion combination of halitosis is quite the aphrodisiac and I find myself responding to her kiss with equal vigour. Looking somewhat perturbed, Shaggy indignantly taps Velma on the shoulder to gain my attention and proceeds to give me a man-hug and a very strong grip with his hand, before doing my fly back up and whispering Good Luck; all the time brimming with manly thespian tears.

Apparently Velma is urgently required to return to Wimbledon in South London as she needs to help Roger Djokovic (whoever he is) before the men's final. Yes, those were her exact words so I guess she's some kind of physiotherapist. She'd already told me previously she wanted nothing more than a good Roddick thrust, but I guess as he's now retired she obviously is looking to service a new batch of male seeds. I still don't quite understand what her sporting qualifications are, but she obviously means business as she dusts the cobwebs off her rusted IUD, gives it a good rub with Brasso and cleans off the dried-on crispy bits with my leftover towelette. Her optimism is infectious, however, rather like her herpes, and I wish her good luck with whatever emerging male tennis players' seeds come her way. She laughs and says "Ditto to that, Boss Man, I just hope they don't withdraw too soon or it'll be very disappointing".

I watch the Mystery Machine disappear into the mists of the Birch Services and wonder where my next stop-off will be. Shaggy is frantically waving his ever-faithful lollipop out of the rear window until a Police motorbike pulls alongside and flags the van down. The traffic cop, in all his tight jodhpurs and biker boot glory, gestures to Shaggy to put it away as the length of it is a Health and Safety menace to any woman over 40. I feel a pang of regret and jealousy as I notice Shaggy delicately touching the Policeman's helmet and smiling coyly in his direction. I thought that smile was just for me! Next thing, the copper is abandoning his bike and climbing aboard the van, joining Shaggy on the back seat and helping him wave his lollipop.

And then they are gone…

I'm none too pleased at what I just witnessed and sit forlornly by the slot machines at the Service Station refreshment area, feeling alone and unloved. Even my usual jauntily-angled headset with Velcro at the temple seems to be hanging limply.

Suddenly, emerging out of the Gents Toilets and looking not a little flustered, there's a tall, slim blonde bombshell dressed head to toe in a long, black gabardine mac, dark film star glasses and a black beret, and she's beckoning me to follow her. I pick up my Bergen and trail in her wake, wondering what on earth is going to happen next.

"Erm, excuse me, Miss, do I know you? Are you my next Tour stopover by any chance?" I shakily enquire, whilst trying to keep up with her fast pace through the corridor and out into the car park. She turns abruptly and snatches her sunglasses off her face to reveal piercing blue eyes. After looking up and down the full length of my combats very slowly, taking in every single crease and bulge, she replies "I used to be Snow White – but I drifted! Follow me please".

I have absolutely no idea what she's talking about, but I'm intrigued and bowled over by her aura of mystery so I follow like some kind of obedient Labrador puppy dying to please its mistress. And yes, even my tongue is hanging out in anticipation.

I'm expecting to walk to a chauffeur-driven limousine, such is her air of sheer star quality, so I'm somewhat disappointed to note we're actually standing at the No 17 bus stop for Trafford and Salford Quays. She obviously has picked up on my crestfallen features and gently touches my hand. "Save a boyfriend for a rainy day – and another, in case it doesn't rain" she spouts. Eh? This is starting to feel like the twilight zone and I'm feeling even more non-plussed. Who is this mystery woman and what the bloody hell is she on about?

As we board the waiting bus she flashes open her gabardine coat to the driver and glides to her seat, leaving me to forage about in my trouser pocket for my single £3.95 fare. I fish out my emergency Mars Bar, but decide for safety reasons to leave my gun where it is, but after several minutes of exhaustive furtling, I manage to grab some loose change and hand it over to the tutting driver. As I jerkily sit next to her as the bus pulls away, I notice her coat is still open and she's stroking her pussy in a very seductive manner. I didn't think cats were allowed on Manchester Transport, but obviously that's what she was making the driver aware of when she got on. It's a white long haired Persian variety, wearing a diamond-encrusted collar and staring at me totally unimpressed as she twizzles her long fingers through its manicured fur. "I generally avoid temptation, unless I can't resist it" she declares, peering deep into my eyes. "Ten men waiting for me at the door? Send one of them home, I'm tired!" And with that, she re-closes her coat with her pussy still snugly tucked up inside, presses the alert button for the driver, and gestures to me once more to get off the bus.

We're now in the heart of Manchester and walking towards a stationary tram. I struggle to make conversation as we walk. "Er, that's a very nice coat and beret you're wearing – do you always wear black?"

"I dress for the image. Not for myself, not for the public, not for the fashion, not for men. I've lived by a man's code designed to fit a man's world, yet at the same time I never forget that a woman's first job is to choose the right shade of lipstick. Underwear makes me uncomfortable and besides, my parts have to breathe. I am at heart a gentleman." she retorts.

Well I did ask.

I find my mind wandering back to the simpler times spent aboard the Mystery Machine, when the biggest decision was whose turn it was to bunk up with Shaggy on the convertible settee. This cosmopolitan metropolis is alien to me in comparison and I'm not a little worried about what I've let myself in for this time.

"Um, what's your name? We can't get through this stopover if I don't know your name" I enquire.

"You can call me Ice Queen. I'd luv to kiss ya, but I just washed my hair" she enigmatically declares. "I'm Head of Intelligence for our Group. Nothing gets past me as far as you're concerned, Mister Boss Man" she seductively strokes her exposed pussy once more in full view of everyone on the tram. For a Captain in Her Majesty's British Army I'm feeling somewhat emasculated and undermined…but I like it!

"I know you've spent time in Canada recently; I know you've made a US pilot that wasn't commissioned; I know what opening nights you attend, where you eat your dinner, who you're with, what you're doing, how you dress – which is pretty awful if I'm honest – even what side you dress, who you've twittered, poked, looked up and phoned. Nothing gets past me. I always say, keep a diary and one day it'll keep you" she finished, rather menacingly. The cat licks its lips and fixes me with its hard feline stare until I break eye contact first and glance away.

"Well, what are your plans for me then? And when are we getting off this bloody rattley old tram?" I pretend it's the transport that's making me squirm, when in fact it's her cool self-assurance that's driving my hot, sweaty combats into overdrive.

"Now Boss Man, when I'm good I'm very good, but when I'm bad I'm better" she breathes, admiring the activity below my waistband. "Between two evils, I always pick the one I've never tried before" she leers and grabs my hand as we alight from the tram. The woman's talking in riddles…but I like it.

We walk hand in hand to a faceless grey building with a corrugated iron door, step over the You Are Not Welcome mat and into a room fitted wall-to-wall with bleeping computers, flashing drives, countless tv screens, monitors and row upon row of headsets hanging on hooks. The Persian cat makes a run for it as she releases it – straight for its litter tray where it stays for a good couple of minutes with a satisfied look on its face.

I too am feeling somewhat satisfied as she finally removes the offending gabardine mac and beret, revealing a 1930s screen siren look of tight pencil skirt, padded shouldered silk blouse and stilettos. She has pencil thin eyebrows, bright red rosebud lips and the blackest kohl pencilled eyes I've ever seen, with soft rolled-up blonde curls circling the beautiful facial features. She's really quite intoxicating, not to mention decades younger than the previous beauties I've visited on this Tour. Thank goodness, someone nearer my own age for once.

She reaches over to one of the computer keyboards and frantically types in a coded message, then picks up an adaptor plug and places it in her navel. I'm somewhat bemused by the action and can't believe my eyes – she's a Synth! OMG no wonder she was spouting that ridiculous nonsense on the tram and the bus – she's been programmed! Just when I thought I'd found a woman nearer my own age to settle down with, she turns out to be a bleedin robot. I flop down in a convenient swivel chair and hold my head in my hands, absolutely devastated at the realisation I'd nearly fallen for a plastic doll.

"Ooh I can't be mithered wi' all this mac and beret malarkey but it's proper chuckin it down out there, our kid. Those ladies were right – you're proper mint you are, cock. Dead nice lookin too. Fancy a bacon balm? I can do it for yer, but I'm not right good at kewkin, so dawn't go blaming me if it's 'anging. And what about a nice brew? I'm gaggin for a brew, me. Nice one. Sound".

Oh no, she's reverted back to factory settings of a proper Manc. I think I preferred the enigmatic film star persona. Oh Shaggy, come back to me, I need to get out of here – and fast!

 **Well! How is Boss Man going to get away from this awkward situation? I can't begin to imagine at the moment, as I'm in desperate need of a lie down with a paracetamol, but give me time and I'm sure I'll come up with something equally silly in the next Tour instalment.**

 **With grateful thanks and acknowledgement to Mae West, Bette Davis, Marlene Dietrich, Greta Garbo et al for their marvellous quotes used in this chapter, I wish I was that clever to have thought of them.**

 **This chapter is dedicated to the brilliantly wonderful Icemist who always goes above and beyond to gather up to date intel on the gorgeous Mr Aldridge, not to mention to post daily pics for all of us on MN to ogle over, ahem, I mean enjoy. And just for the record, I'm sure she's not really a Synth, just extremely IT knowledgeable (unlike me).**

 **Thank you for reading, messaging and all the lovely reviews – it's what keeps me going and so reassuring when I think I'm the only one who's completely bonkers.**


	7. The Scottish Wedding Finale

**Our beloved Captain has finally detached himself from the robotic charms of Manchester and touched down at the last destination of his current Tour itinery, on the Bonny Bonny Banks of Loch Lomond, where he is attending a Traditional Scottish Wedding. Thank goodness the kilt fits snugly as there seems to be quite a few female prying eyes in ye olde worlde Kirk…**

"I said: Do you, Jennifer, take Jock to be your lawful wedded husband?" The Minister was getting ever so slightly annoyed continually repeating himself.

"Hmm? Oh, erm, och aye, I suppose so… I mean, "I do" yes umm…" Jen was still distracted, absent mindedly leering and seductively biting her bottom lip in my direction. I pretended to study the hymn sheet and adjusted my protruding sporran awkwardly to sit on my preferred left side as I could feel her eyes boring into me. How was I to know she was the actual bride? She didn't act like the bride last night when she was showing me her 500-Page Anatomically Correct Manual Complete with Gratuitously Graphic Diagrams back at the Loch Aye In The Nood Hotel at half-past midnight. I'd quite rightly presumed she was just another wedding guest when she asked me if I wanted to party in her suite after dinner. Hindsight is a wonderful thing, but back at boarding school we often played Pin the Tail on the Donkey after midnight feasts, so after a few single malts, when Jen bet me that in my kilt I was probably hung like one, I thought she meant we were to play a few jolly games after supper.

Of course, once she had me trapped in her room there was no donkey, only a cougar in sight, and let's just say her idea of Pass the Parcel meant I was passionately unwrapping quite a few layers of clothing, not to mention several little foil wrappers, rather than the usual tissue paper. To be fair, however, the prize of blue smarties did go down very well, and indeed kept me going all night.

When Jen produced her very descriptive Manual I discovered many, many positions that I'd never been able to achieve whilst growing up playing Twister with mummy and my chums from Monkton Prep, and yet somehow with Jen I found the contortions extremely pleasurable and quite achievable when you made full use of the hotel trouser press. And when Jen screamed "here comes my chuff-chuff" with her legs akimbo, it took me back to when I was purging my way through the deep ravines of Afghan aboard the Kabul Express last year.

Ah yes! last night was quite magical; in fact I need to not remember it so vividly as my sporran is now totally unable to hang centrally no matter which side I adjust it to. Thank goodness Daphne and Velma's professional handling and expertise at that endless kilt measuring session we had back at the Travel Lodge in Dudley means no matter how excited I get, there's still plenty of tartan pleats to go round and very little noticeable riding up with wear, shall we say. And Velma's bright idea to weigh down the sporran with a couple of spare pots of Swarfega has helped, despite making me walk with a limp yet again on alternate legs occasionally. On the plus side, I'm never without a deep cleansing cream when my digits have been deeply embedded somewhere they shouldn't. Nothing clears the waft of Billingsgate Market more successfully than an oil-based emulsifier so it's a win-win all round really.

I look up and once again I'm in full eye contact with Jen as the Minister, whilst tut-tutting impatiently, is attempting to force her hand out from stroking her décolletage seductively so that Jock can place the ring on her left third finger. The bemused Jock pushes the gold band in place and the congregation heave a sigh of relief that it won't be long now before they can get their hands on the haggis and deep fried Mars bar buffet back at the Hotel.

"I now pronounce you Mr and Mrs Strappe – Jock, you may kiss your bride!" the Minister huffs sternly, yanking Jen to turn fully towards a bewildered-but-still-smiling Jock rather than sidewardly gawping at my embarrassing wardrobe malfunction.

A hearty spontaneous round of applause fills the old kirk and the organist strikes up a Les Dawson-esque rendition of All Things Bright and Beautiful. There's a kerfuffle of gathering up of hymn sheets and frantic searching for reading glasses in brightly coloured clutch-bags and fag-packet-full breast pockets as the congregation prepares to harmonise at a too-high key, then we're off at full pelt on verse one, pretending we know all the words without looking at the hymn sheet, when in fact we only know the chorus.

I feel all female eyes on me as we plunge tunelessly on into verse two, so I'm hoping it's my musicality that's holding their attention and not my excitable clanking Swarfega pots; "…The purple-headed mountains…" causes a ripple of titters and elbowing between the bridesmaids, not to mention the mothers and grandmothers of the congregation, as they mouth the lyrics extra loudly and stare at me knowingly whilst hoisting up their bra straps and crossing their legs.

I try to ignore the fug of oestrogen musk oozing through the pews in my direction and continue with the hymn, only to catch the eye of Jock's Best Man, his cousin Angus, in his peony pink Strappe family tartan kilt and matching jauntily-angled tam o'shanter. I must say that shade of lipstick does not match his outfit at all, but he can really hold his own in salmon stiletto Ghillie brogues for a man of such wide girth and ample thigh. He too is staring at my unruly sporran and puckering his fuschia lips suggestively. I find my mind wandering back to Rupert/Shaggy; how handsome he'd look dressed in a kilt with a lovely flowing fly plaid and brooch and plenty of big flashes. I hastily check my phone for Facebook messages – I really must respond next time he gives me a poke and arrange to meet up…

After further renditions of "Be Kind to Auld Grannie" and "She's an Awfu' Lassie Jennie" (not exactly appropriate in my opinion) the happy couple disappear to sign the Register, and we are entertained by Angus doing a highland jig up and down the aisle to that old wedding favourite "Ace of Spades" by Motorhead. How he keeps his Tam o'Shanter on in such a show of high energy and head-banging I'll never know, but I can confirm, along with the 50-strong congregation, that Angus certainly left his Calvin Kleins at home today.

He certainly was not feeling kind to auld Granny either, when the poor elderly lady next to me took a full swing penis-slap in the face, knocking her bifocals into the next pew and leaving a very nasty whiplash weal across her cheek. Quite why she thought her specs had flown down the front of my jabot I have no idea, but she seemed to cheer up once I let her rummage around to check for a few minutes until her glasses were returned by the bride's scowling mother in the front pew, who forcibly removed Granny's prying hands and ordered her to sit back down, whilst pouting her moustachioed lips in a tut-tut expression and softening her frown in my direction.

Finally the happy couple emerge and stroll back down through the kirk smiling and acknowledging familiar faces in the congregation. Jen ambles demurely upto me and thanks me for coming, to which I reply the pleasure was all mine. Jen grins mischieviously and responds "Oh no, Boss Man, I think you'll find the pleasure was indeed all mine and I've got the selfies to prove it. Now is that a pot of Swarfega in your sporran or are you just pleased to see me?" then with a wink and a waggle of her eyebrows that look like a couple of sperm attempting the hokey-cokey, she continues to sashay down the aisle with Jock lumbering behind.

OGOGOGOGOGOGOGOGOGOGOG

It's now 6.30pm and we're all seated back at the Loch Aye In The Nood Hotel Ballroom enjoying the idle banter and forced laughter of the Reception. We've toasted the Happy Couple and thanked the bridesmaids and now we're waiting for the Best Man's speech.

"Pray silence! Let's hear it now for our Best Man, Angus McCoatup!" (loud cheers and table banging)

Angus gingerly stands up and pulls his sweaty kilt out from his bum-crack before taking a deep breath.

"Thank you everybody, och! it's hot in here, look at me - I'm absolutely awash - now, let me just have a quick dab with my wee hanky, there that's better. Ooh I do feel giddy! Dya know, I woke up this morning and I felt as limp as a minister's handshake. I opened the door in my dressing gown – funny place to have a door I know – but there'd been a note pushed right up through my letterbox. Hello, I thought, it's the minister wanting me to join the choir again, but no! It was from Jen, reminding me to thank Captain James for making the long auld journey all the way up the High Road from Bath and the very Low Road from dirrrty Manchester, just to see her and Jock tie the knot. And I must add, looking mighty fine indeed in his James family tartan. Let's raise our glasses…no, I said glasses, granny – will somebody help her to get off the table and pull her bloomers up please?... to the gorgeously cheek-boned and beautifully stern-faced Captain James!"

"To Captain James!" chorused the whole female audience, adding several wolf whistles and earthy screams.

I felt rather abashed at such attention and look down awkwardly at my lap, only to see the Chief Bridesmaids lurking under the tablecloth, leering up at me. Damn and blast my natural stance of sitting with legs akimbo – they're giggling uncontrollably and pointing rather rudely at my dirk flashes. Once they catch my eye their demeanour changes to a look of complete wanton lust. "What are you doing? Who are you?" I hiss, trying not to draw any more attention to myself.

"Och, it's embarrassing, Boss Man" she says, smirking to her accomplice, "Well that's a funny name – I'm going to call you Wendy and your friend here looks like a Kelly, so come on, explain yourselves!" I find myself still rather non-plussed, yet my sporran is fully understanding of the situation and is rising to the occasion, well and truly beyond any kind of Swarfega control.

"Och, I lost my ear-ring and I thought it had rolled under your table!" Wendy explains, despite the fact she was sitting three tables away and around the corner on the left.

"And I offered to help, Bonny Lad, because as me auld granny used to say "shy bairns get nowt" and if there's a piece of your marrerbawn gawin' I want first dibs!" They both snigger uncontrollably as they continue admiring the view up my manly skirt.

Of course, I don't want to cause a commotion and quickly check to see if anyone's noticing my dilemma. "I should think you are embarrassed!" I whisper, a little too loudly. "Stay there until Angus finishes his speech, and try not to put your faces quite so close to my sporran – you're causing an anatomical imbalance and things might blow!"

"Whey aye man, ah can practically guarantee that, wor lad, I thought the view from ma table was bonny, and ah thought giz a deek at that a bit clawser, Kelly, so here I am. And I was reet – this really is a different ball-bag" she gazes adoringly up my kilt, licking her lips.

I must say, Wendy seems anything but embarrassed and Kelly, despite having no front tooth and whistling like a canary throughout Angus's quips about Jock's bachelor days, is more than happy to oblige, staying under the tablecloth for the whole 30-minute speech. My blushing was soon down to some very close personal attention rather than Angus's spontaneous toast, but what could I do?

"Now, ladies and gentlemen, I'd also like you to put your hands together for our chef, Chris McReal-Life, whose tatties and neeps had the ladies gagging for more today. Has anybody seen him? Come on out, Chris, and get your applause. Anybody? "

"Last I saw him, he was boning his John Dory with my new mother-in-law, Angus" interrupts a rather inebriated Jock, "and spreading his cream sauce a bit too liberally around Grandma and the Girl Guides Church Choir for my liking!"

"Och well he's obviously working his way through the menu so we can applaud him later. Now – on with the thank yous…"

I'm sure Wendy and Kelly have very sore knees as they remain under my table beyond the speeches until the dancing begins, and only come out because Uptown Funk on the bagpipes is such a catchy tune. Uncannily, I'm feeling rather spent myself; at least the Swarfega pots have stopped bandying around now, so I take to the dance floor with both of them for a good old fashioned Scottish Reel.

I've now danced with the whole female wedding entourage over the past few hours and am feeling exhausted. My iPhone is buzzing impatiently so I weave my way out of the ballroom to the peace and tranquillity of the lounge bar to answer the call.

I'm pleased to see the call is from my Commanding Officer. "Ah! There you are James. Where on earth have you been the last few months? Never mind, I don't want to know. Now listen up. I've got a rather interesting mission in the pipeline for you. A Miss Tango Sugartits – no, me neither - has been in contact with the Colonel-in-Chief, he's a big Corporation Terrace fan apparently, and she's asked him if he can supply a suitably high-cheek-boned, tall, manly, gorgeous chisel-featured Captain Stern Face type, with a suntan not quite as good as hers. Of course, I immediately thought of myself, but the Colonel said the suitable candidate must have his own teeth and hair and be about 30, so that put my volunteering up the swanny. Anyway, I then thought of Ross Poldark, but he's far too busy filming four more series, plus of course he didn't fancy the humidity getting in his perm, so I ended up with you old chap – what do you think? It involves three months filming in Kenya. Apparently, the Beeb's budget could only run to Ronnie Corbett, as Miss Tits has cost them so much to employ, but Ronnie's tied up for three more years delivering Wiltshire Farm Foods easy meals to discerning palated pensioners, so they thought they'd try the cheaper option of the real British Army for a candidate. Now, what do you say, old man? I've lined up a very special recruit who's an experienced and fully trained guide. She says she's more than happy to assist you and her African Bush is open for any exploring you wish to pursue as long as you keep your hands washed or at least well lubricated. Now you won't get many offers like that these days, eh?"

Actually, Sir, I get offers like that every day of the week and twice on Sundays, I knowingly smirk to myself.

"Well, Sir, I think the time is probably right for me to spend some time out of the country, so why not Kenya?"

"Jolly good! Ok I'll get on the blower and sort out the next flight to Nairobi. You'll need to pick up your Guide from Cambridge and shoot down to Brize asap. Goes by the name of Pixie. You can't miss her. She'll be standing outside the Council offices clutching her pearls, looking harassed, with a 4-year-old boy wrapped round her leg. Good luck old boy!"

 **Well there we are, the latest stage of Boss Man's Tour ends in Scotland, although things are looking hopeful that he will be escorted to Kenya ready for Series 2 in the very near future.**

 **He probably needs a well-earned rest, not to mention a thorough check-up at the STD clinic, before we plunge deep into Pixie's African Bush and see what and where the craic is, so let us leave him in peace for a while to gather his thoughts and pack his Bergen, ready for some possible future African adventures in 2016…**

 **This chapter is dedicated to the lovely Jenmc, Kelly HB and itsembarrassing whose fanfic writing is always sublime and knocks my silly ramblings into a cocked hat.**

 **With grateful acknowledgement to the brilliant Larry Grayson and Frankie Howerd whose jokes I slightly adapted for some of Angus' Best Man speech.**

 **Thanks for reading/reviewing/commenting/PMs; your kind words have been really encouraging and I really do like to know what you think.**


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